Saying Goodbye to the Body
I died a month ago, but we’re looking up at
the same night sky—the arsenal of stars
The Milky Way is unsure
of my new home, in the woods.
This spring night my bones sing,
trying their hardest to send a beacon,
a signal, an I’m here. The swampland claims me,
pulls me in and under. My skin once
cradled by the muck held the truth,
but it has left me now, said its goodbye
to my bones. I unwind and call to the sun to
draw me to surface, among the June bugs
and leaflitter. I feel the stumble, the footsteps
brushing through the woods, the man.
He’s static when he sees my open mouth,
my emptiness laid out clean.
Terin Weinberg earned her MFA from Florida International University in Miami, Florida. She graduated with degrees in Environmental Studies and English from Salisbury University in Maryland. She has been published in journals including: The Normal School, Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, Red Earth Review, Dark River Review, Split Rock Review, and Waccamaw. Terin received a 2020 Best of the Net nomination.